


slow dance

by scribblingnellie



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anthea POV, Anthea in love, Anthea is a dedicated PA, Anthea's got her emotions under control probably, Caring Mycroft, Emotions, F/M, Falling for the boss, Feels, Hands, Hurt/Comfort, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft in love eventually, Mycroft's beautiful hands, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Touch, Unrequited Love, caring is not an advantage, mythea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 04:16:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2334941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblingnellie/pseuds/scribblingnellie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anthea knows her boss Mycroft Holmes very well - his clothing sizes, PIN numbers, how he takes his tea. And that he could not feel the same way about her as she does about him. When she finds him out of sorts, a slow dance of realisation between them begins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	slow dance

**Author's Note:**

> update: done a few more minor edits to the text since posting - usually what happens when I post late at night!

  
Pushing the door open, she sensed something was wrong straight away. The set of his shoulders under that beautifully tailored suit; how his head rested in his hands, strands of auburn falling across his fingers.

She stepped inside the quiet, dark walled office. He didn't look up. Not good. Her boss never let her see him like this. Today he wasn't sitting gracefully in his chair, straightening himself up, composing his face into the serious look he always gave her. A serious look that she was sure held something else, something more. Possibly.

No.

Anthea shook her head. He didn't do emotions. Not publicly, not in front of his staff. And that included his personal executive assistant, the woman he'd relied upon for the last seven years to keep his life organised and running while he ran the country (from behind the scenes, of course). She knew his medical history, his measurements and clothing sizes, his PIN numbers, how he took his tea and that if he was rubbing small circles on his left temple with his long, elegant fingers it meant one of his regular migraines was manifesting itself. And she would wordlessly fetch and place the painkillers and small glass of water beside him, to be acknowledged only with his slight nod.

No. The upright, stoic Mycroft Holmes never let her see an emotion, a slip in the facade that he wore, had to wear, to do his job. Why would he ever look at her in any other way?

Slowly moving the several steps over to his desk, Anthea placed the silver tea tray down in its customary position to his left. But still he didn't move. His fingertips were pressed hard against his temple; she could see red pressure spots surrounding them. It must have been a migraine. While he would never admit it, she knew how badly they could affect him.

Ok. Just this once then. Holding her breath, trying not to let him hear how fast her heart was beating, she placed her hand gently on his shoulder.

Rigid. His shoulder was so tense under her fingers. But he didn't move, not a flinch. Gently she squeezed the top of his arm.

'Sir?' It came out as a whisper. Unsure at standing so close, at touching him, at how unlike himself he looked. 'Mr Holmes?'

A slight movement of his head. Then his fingers stopped pressing into his forehead. They flattened out, ran over his hair, and down the back of his neck. Anthea found herself transfixed. Such elegant, beautiful hands. She'd always been fascinated by them - how he wrapped them around his whisky glass, how he held his fountain pen, moving it in long fluid strokes. And she now found herself so close to them, to him. Captivated, she was unable to look away. As they rested on the back of his neck, his fingers locked together, his head still hanging, she tenderly placed her own hand on top of his.

'What is it, sir?'

His fingers were warm under her touch, his ring cool in contrast. She always thought that his skin would be warm and soft. Slowly releasing the breath she'd been holding, Anthea brought her other hand to rest on his head. Smoothing back the auburn strands. Slow, careful strokes. Under her hands she felt a movement, a slight raising of his head, almost as though Mycroft was pushing further into her hands. Like a cat. The thought brought a small smile to her face. He would probably like the idea of being compared to a cat.

Closing her eyes, Anthea took hold of the feelings that chased around her body. All the times she'd wanted to reach out and touch him, to carefully rub away the tension and the ache she could see in him, and now there she was. Her heartbeat was most definitely increasing, and her fingers tingled, wanting to run themselves along his cheek and touch his lips.

'Forgive me.'

His voice stilled her hand, her fingers caught his hair. She heard the slight stumble on the words and her heart ached at the hesitation in his usually confident tone.

'There's nothing to forgive, sir.' And she let her hands drop. The moment was broken. Back to being professional.

Raising his head, placing his hands on the desk, fingers spread out across the blotter, her boss slowly straightened himself upright. His eyes came to rest on the tray and the white china teapot; tendrils of steam rising from the holes in the lid, the woody, dark smell of his favourite oolong blend filling the air between them.

'Is it afternoon tea already?'

He sounded a little dazed; Anthea had to ball her fingers up to stop herself from touching him again.

'It is.' And her professional tone was back.

Turning and reaching towards the teacup, its gold rim catching the overhead light, she felt a sudden touch to her hand. She stilled. The gentle, unexpected pressure of Mycroft's hand, the feel of his fingers wrapping around hers and Anthea found the emotions she'd tied so tightly away trying to get out.

Tender. That was how it felt as his hand brought hers towards his face, stopping in front of his lips. And as she stared, she realised that his other hand had found its way around her and now rested on her waist, warm through her light summer shirt. She closed her eyes and let the sensation of his careful touch rush to every corner of her body.

Why was he doing this? Placing her fingers under his chin, Anthea gently tilted his face upwards, searching in his eyes.

'Mycroft?'

The use of his first name gave him a jolt. She could see it - the quick tilt of his head, the snap of his eyes to hers. She'd never called him by his first name before. But then, he'd never had one hand on her waist and the other entwined with hers before. So, first names seemed right for the occasion.

'Anthea.'

His eyes held hers, almost fiercely. She enjoyed the sensation that stole through her as they stared at each other.

'I find myself...' Mycroft paused, adjusting his fingers in hers. '...I find myself with another of these interminable migraines.'

'Shall I bring you the painkillers?'

Removing her hand from his, she tried to turn but found his arm was still there. And that his head was moving closer to her, close enough to touch her side and rest against her waist. Close enough to feel his breath through her shirt, touching her skin. Her stomach tightened at the intimacy of it, at the pressure of him on her body.

'I think that I may need them, in a moment...'

Before she could reply, Mycroft was pulling away from her, his hand sliding from her waist. The loss of his touch was immediate, leaving an ache along her side. 

'However, Anthea...'  

No. Don't say it. Please. A moment of madness. That's what he would put it down to. The all consuming pain in his head had made him unaware. Anthea felt the ache creep its way along and into her heart. Shutting down her emotions, she turned away from him. 

'It's all right, sir. I understand. The pain can be quite disorientating.'

Anthea busied her hands with the teapot and strainer. Best to just get on with what she came to do and not allow the ache to take over. Beside her, she heard him rise from his chair, his elegant limbs unfolding themselves at the corner of her eye. 

'As you were saying only the other day, sir...oh.'

And his hand was removing the teacup from hers, placing it back on the tray. His arm brushing against hers.

'Please allow me to apologise.'

'There's no need, Mr Holmes.'

'Allow me to apologise for not being able to do this properly. I have little experience of this type of emotion and the situations it calls for. But I do believe...'

And as he took both of her hands, Anthea found herself looking back into his beautiful eyes. There it was, what she was sure she had seen before. The softening of his steely imperious gaze.

Oh.

'...that this situation I find myself in requires particular actions..' And he was leaning in, close enough to feel his breath on her cheek. '...if you will permit me?'

The freckles on his face looked even more dashing up close, his mouth so sensuous. It was all she could do to nod, feeling the tight knot she'd wrapped round her emotions snap and fall away.

'You may.'

His lips on hers, hesitant and tender, felt as wonderful as they looked.

'My apologies,' he whispered as she felt him draw back, 'for taking so long to realise.'

Remembering to breath in and out, Anthea stared at his lips. 'Apology accepted.'

And pulling his slender, toned body back against hers, she felt his warm skin beneath his rich silk shirt. Just as she knew it would feel.

The tea could wait.

*****

**Author's Note:**

> Anthea and Mycroft is a ship I have a lot of affection for and love to read about but had yet to write a story for. So here is my first Mythea fic! Many thanks for reading.


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